


Only Time Can Heal

by almostbecamehistoric (capgal)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a lot of hurt and a lot of comfort, also platonic and slightly implied romantic adorable e/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:11:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capgal/pseuds/almostbecamehistoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Combeferre have survived the barricade, with difficulty--but that might prove to be the easiest part of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Time Can Heal

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed. Originally a prompted drabble from tumblr (scars: My muse touching your muse's scars) that I kept as a separate piece because I liked it.

Recovery took a long time. Even after the doctors released him from his lengthy stay in the hospital, recovery took a long time.

It took a day for Enjolras to move. He simply lay in bed, in the exact position in which they had brought him home from the hospital. He never more resembled a marble statue than in those dark 24 hours—still and unresponsive, eyes closed and body limp and unmoving. Only the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest gave away the fact that there was still life in this body—if such a state could be called life.

It took a week for Enjolras to speak. _Désolé_. It was the first and only word he spoke, for several days. No explanation of why, or what for; only a flat apology, and a dull glaze in the once-blazing blue eyes.

It took a month for Enjolras to leave his house. Even still, a shadow of terror covered the angelic face every time there was a loud noise. Combeferre never left his leader’s side, one hand always gentle but firm on the marble shoulder. Day by day, Enjolras ventured another step further from the sanctuary of his house. Some days he returned shaking and hyperventilating, looking for all the world like frightened and cornered prey. Some days he could not brave more than two steps. But every morning he dressed himself, and every day he stepped out. Every time, Combeferre stood by him, becoming Enjolras’ guide in much more literal a sense than either could have predicted.

It took a year for Enjolras to reveal. Combeferre traced his fingers slowly over each mark left by bullets and bayonets and flying shrapnel from broken furniture. Each light touch made Enjolras shudder, memories flashing in front of him more vividly than the room in which they sat. But he did not draw away. When finally each patch of marred skin had been caressed by gentle fingers, silent tears rolled down Enjolras’ face. Combeferre’s eyes, too, held immense sorrow. He pressed his lips against a scar on his chest—the bullet that had nearly killed Enjolras.

It took a lifetime for Enjolras to heal. Physical wounds were easily forgotten, hidden, vanished. Often Combeferre, with his soft words and gentle hands, ran his fingers over the scars that lay covered by Enjolras’ long-sleeved shirts and jackets. But he could not touch the wounds that hurt the most, festered the worst—the guilt and the grief that bowed Apollo’s golden head. Only when death finally claimed him was Enjolras’ spirit able to rest, able to heal.

It took an eternity for Enjolras to forgive himself. Eternity, and more.


End file.
